


26. “You’re the one thing keeping me sane right now.”

by KittenKin



Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: John can't magic up interesting cases and he's certainly not going to give Sherlock cigarettes or cocaine, but hecangive him this.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605655
Comments: 9
Kudos: 127





	26. “You’re the one thing keeping me sane right now.”

“Sherlock, you _do_ realize I’m not an inanimate object, yeah?” John frowned at him, solemn and concerned, but mockingly so.

“Did you even hear what I said?” Sherlock snapped back.

“Mm, yep. Believe the gist of that twenty minute rant was that you’re bored. Just wanted to ask though, because you’ve told me I’m a successor to the skull, replaced me temporarily with a balloon, and just now referred to me as a thing. At least Moriarty called me your pet, not just a possession.”

Sherlock was so offended by being ranked second to Moriarty in anything - and by John of all people - that he drew himself up to his full height, swelled his lungs with the utmost amount of air that they could hold, and attempted to spontaneously combust. Mere words could never convey the depth and breadth and sheer density of his outrage. Nor would John prove astute enough to comprehend them, no doubt.

For all that Sherlock loved the man desperately and had multiple galleries devoted to his good qualities in the Mind Palace, John was at times excruciatingly thick.  


Enough of his reaction must have bled through and sunk in, at least, for John to set aside his laptop with a sigh. Sherlock huffed out some of his indignation and glared at him expectantly, impatiently, hopefully, adoringly.

“Well then, how about a game?”

“What sort?”

“Guess what–

Sherlock reinflated.

“No no, sorry, _deduce_ what I’m thinking about right now,” John amended quickly. “If you get it right, you can run an experiment.”

“How is that a prize?” Sherlock scoffed. There were already eighteen experiments running all over the flat, only five of which his landlady and flatmate even knew about.  


“Any experiment you like, and I promise to participate if you want me to.” John fixed him with a speaking look, and the detective perked up, hitherto abandoned avenues of scientific inquiry opening up before him.  


“Any? Even ones you’ve previously declared–“

“Yes, even those. The death and maiming clause is still in effect, of course.”

“Yes yes of course,” Sherlock waved that trifling detail aside, already ransacking his mental notes for the most tantalizing possibilities. He glanced at the kitchen with his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to remember if he had a wide enough variety of molds and mildew on hand to make asking for John’s old uniform worthwhile.  


“Hold on there,” John laughed. “I haven’t told you my terms yet. If you guess wrong, then _I_ get to say what we do next, and _you’ve_ got to play along.”

The negotiations proved enough of a distraction in and of themselves to lift Sherlock out of his sulkiness, at least for that evening. They squabbled and nitpicked and tore up many, many sheets of paper while drafting the rules, until John declared it Pad Thai and telly time. By then, Sherlock had been made amiable enough by all the invigorating shouting to help chop veggies and concoct sauce when ordered to, and the game was set aside for the time being.

They played eventually, of course. And played again. And again and again. Sometimes not for many months, sometimes twice in a single week. The schedule - dependent on Sherlock’s moods - ebbed and flowed, like London’s criminal activity. But it was always there, ready and waiting, reliable and willing, like John at his side.  


The good captain would stand patiently while Sherlock used him as a sounding board and also run after him down alleys, stitch him up when cases went wrong and prop him up when stakeouts dragged on too long, shout at him when he needed rousing and giggle at him when he wanted camaraderie. And when the world grew dim and dark and the incessant noise of it all grew treacly-treacherous, John - wonderful, beautiful, luminous John - somehow knew, and headed it off with a nudge and a quiet, “deduce me”.

The consulting detective won the game most times of course - and his flatmate had an unexpectedly permanent amateur tattoo to show for it - but one of the reasons that John was so delightful was that the man managed to trip up even Sherlock’s great brain sometimes. Without meaning to, even. One afternoon, Sherlock correctly deduced that John was hiding a pair of concert tickets, and pointed out all the little ways in which he’d been betraying for hours now that they were in his left rear pocket. Sadly, the tickets were pronounced to be tucked into a book, only John had been constantly _forgetting_ that he’d hidden them there earlier, and kept thinking he still had them in his trousers.

“Did you just outsmart me with stupidity?!” Sherlock bellowed, sending John into gales of helpless laughter.

Most of John’s other triumphs rested in his plans taking silly little turns. He would stare at Sherlock expectantly with a cheeky grin - a masterful tactic, save that Sherlock was certain John didn’t realize how distracting he was being - and after having his plans to eat a quick bite at a new tapas restaurant and then take a walk in the park deduced, would crow happily and declare himself the winner because Sherlock had failed to deduce that he wanted to pilfer a basket of bread from the restaurant so that they could feed the ducks.

Cheap tricks, but Sherlock enjoyed these plans and ploys that John concocted, so much so that he only ever put up token protests, and those not very strenuously. It always put an aching sort of happiness into his chest when he thought of their game. John, spending so much time watching Sherlock. Knowing him so well that he could see a dark day on the horizon, sometimes from far, far away. Spending hours plotting, putting more effort into these deduction opportunities for Sherlock than he ever had for any girlfriend’s dinner or gift or seduction.  


Not that there had been many girlfriends lately, and oh, that was terrifying to think on. Had John given up on women? Had women given up on John? Had John given up on Sherlock agreeing not to chase away all of his girlfriends? (…was he afraid of anyone seeing the tattoo? Sherlock had though it rather fetching, himself.)  


It was amazing and agonizing. This new facet to their friendship made it so easy for Sherlock to slip-slide down that dangerous slope of hope and delude himself into believing that the attentive care was also passionate love, and that the outings and nights-in that their game led to were dates, not just distractions. He wanted it to just go on and on, forever and ever, and he also couldn’t help but wonder sometimes when and how - and because of whom - it would end.

But John surprised him yet again.

“Hey.”

Sherlock hummed absently and made a minimal effort to rouse himself from the comfortable doze he’d fallen into post-dinner. He cracked his eyes open but didn’t move from his calculated slouch against John’s shoulder, hoping that whatever his friend wanted, it could be sorted without him losing any of this cherished closeness, this warmth and domesticity.

“Hey. Deduce me.”

Sherlock frowned and straightened up after all. There was no need for the game. London was quiet but happily, so was his mind, and he’d even eaten half his dinner and settled down to not-watch telly without much more than his usual grumbling at the inanities of popular programming.

His confusion was foreseen, because as soon as they met gazes, John’s smile stretched out a bit and he added,

“This one is for me. Come on, deduce me.”

For John? But he didn’t look strained and stressed, he hadn’t had an uptick in nightmares or his flinch response, and his left hand and right leg were steady. He looked almost ready to curl up a notch tighter on the couch and drift off to join Sherlock in an impromptu nap, in fact. So whatever his reason for wishing to play, it wasn’t the same as when Sherlock needed it.

The detective raked his gaze down, dragged it back up, and then stopped. There was an undercurrent of tension underneath John’s overall demeanor of calm and contentment. Expectant, hopeful anticipation, holding himself in readiness for…something. Repressed amusement in the quirk of his lips, which was usual for their playtimes, a touch of anxiousness in his jawline which was a little more unusual but not not entirely unprecedented.

His eyes, however. Oh. Sherlock’s eyes stopped roaming, his lungs stopped inflating, and his mind slammed into an invisible wall.

“Well? What do I want to do right now?” John prompted, further scrambling Sherlock’s mental processes by smiling yet more fondly and turning one hand palm-up in the meager space between them, knuckles brushing lightly against Sherlock’s thigh, as if wanting…wanting…

Sherlock’s lungs burned and his thoughts only produced static. He shook his head helplessly. Self-delusions dressed up as hope were one thing; expecting miracles of this order was madness.

“Want a hint?” John asked cheekily. He’d never offered before, had never needed to, but now Sherlock nodded immediately.

And then froze, muscles locking up almost painfully tight, as John…John _leaned in_. Curled his waiting fingers around a loose fold of Sherlock’s robe, slid his other hand across the back of the couch, and tipped close. Knocked their foreheads together, closed his eyes, and hummed a soft, happy little noise as he nudged his nose into Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock hit the maximum threshold of keeping still and began moving in the opposite direction, trembling along every limb and shaking out his next breath.

John blinked his eyes open and drew back just slightly, trading a bit of amusement for concern now.

“All right?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded despite feeling on the verge of a myocardial infarction.

“Want me to…uh, back off?” John queried next, and the shadow of discomfort and regret crossing his face was intolerable. Their noses thwacked together as Sherlock shook his head violently. It earned him a chuckle, however, and John steadied him with warm hands cradling his face, so he counted it as a highly successful maneuver.

“C’mon, genius. What do I want to do right now?” John asked again, the words warm against Sherlock’s skin and paradoxically making him shiver.

It was obvious. It was impossible.

“I give up,” Sherlock whispered.

“Yeah? That means I get to decide what we do now, you know.”

Oh, that devilish grin. Sherlock loved it, and hoped - _hoped_ \- that he was seeing aright; that _John_ loved _him_.  


“I know,” Sherlock replied, and waited to be kissed.  



End file.
